


Wings

by Ellenar_Ride



Category: Oxventure (Web Series)
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Gen, Wingfic, everything i touch turns to angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-01
Updated: 2020-05-27
Packaged: 2021-02-28 10:40:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22968613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ellenar_Ride/pseuds/Ellenar_Ride
Summary: There are many races in the kingdom of Geth, but they all have one thing in common: wings. But wings aren't just additional limbs, they tell a story all their own. The shape and color of someone's wings can tell you a lot about them as a person (but it's not always correct).ORA somewhat-angsty character study of the Oxventure crew through the lens of a symbolism-laden wingfic, because I'm fandom trash and I couldn't get the idea out of my head.
Comments: 14
Kudos: 73





	1. The Magpie

Magpies are one of the least liked morphs in Geth, in large part due to the superstitions surrounding the actual bird carrying over to the people who bear their wings. The magpie is a beautiful bird, but its carnivorous nature and thieving tendencies when presented with shiny objects is enough to dull the allure of their gorgeous feathers. But the worst offender, as concerns the battlefield of public opinion regarding the poor magpie’s reputation, is that cursed rhyme.

_One for sorrow, two for joy_

Corazón has been surrounded by that magpie-counting rhyme since he was four. Since his feathers grew in, black and white and striking and _cursed._ He’s heard it whistled by ~~cruel~~ thoughtless servants in his father’s manor. He’s heard it muttered under the breath of every skittish, superstitious townie he’s ever met. He’s heard it on the tongues of drunks, of nobles, of urchins and brigands and tradesmen and everyone in-between. If he hears the words ‘one for sorrow’ as he walks into a room one more time, he’s going to _scream._

_Three for a girl, four for a boy_

That rhyme is why magpies can’t travel alone without being in literal, physical danger. That rhyme is why Corazón—no, _Percy,_ he was _Percy_ then—was forced to dye his feathers for thirteen years to pass as a blackbird. That rhyme is why Corazón has learned to keep his guard up in backwater towns, and even some major cities, lest someone try to clip his wings ~~(or just hack them off at the shoulder)~~ in a desperate attempt to break the ‘bad luck curse’ brought on by spotting a lone magpie.

_Five for silver, six for gold_

As much as he hates to do anything his father commanded, Corazón still dyes his feathers, especially when he needs to go into town. It just isn’t safe to step into town alone with magpie wings on your back; blackbirds are safer. He doesn’t have anyone to watch his back anymore. So even when the ever-present reek of chemicals and dye burns his nose and sends his mind spinning back to a helpless childhood and leaves him half-convinced he has no autonomy even now, he dyes his wings.

_Seven for a secret never to be told_

His wings are dyed, as they always are, when he enters the town of Casterfalls. His wings are dyed when he catches a rat, intimidates a merchant, and grapples a gnome. His wings are dyed as his guild forms around him, as he finally finds a group of friends ~~that look like they might be the ones who stay.~~ And he finds himself dying his wings again and again and again, every time the black begins to fade and hints of white feathers poke through.

_Eight for a wish, nine for a kiss_

They met a blackbird. They befriended a blackbird. ~~They tolerate a blackbird, barely, and he doesn’t dare to push.~~ And it’s stupid, it’s _stupid,_ but when he thinks about letting his real wings show, letting the white shine through, all he can hear is _one for sorrow_ in each of their voices and it stops him cold. He can’t handle the possibility. So he dyes his wings, and he dyes his wings, and he dyes his wings. His guild, his friends, look at him and see a blackbird. He can’t bear to have them look at him like a magpie.

_Ten for a bird you must not miss._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yeah. This is a thing. Mostly because I love Oxventure, I love wingfic, I love character studies, and I love angsty stories. Please bear in mind that this only reflects how I interpret the characters, not how the crew intends to play them and not how I see the real people. I just want to have a bit of fun, and I definitely _don't_ want to be the creepy fan with no sense of boundaries.
> 
> We're starting with Corazón, because our resident pirate demands attention the loudest. Also because I had the most ideas of how to integrate magpies with his character, and also I'm lowkey obsessed with the magpie-counting rhyme? I've also seen it as crow-counting, but for the purposes of this universe it exclusively applies to magpies.


	2. The Crow

Prudence is unashamedly, unflinchingly evil. It's just who she is—she has to put herself first, no-one else will. Besides, she worships Cthulhu; that's enough to convince most people she's a lost cause. But! Back to the point. Prudence is a tiefling: red skin, solid white eyes, horns, demon tail, claws, fangs—they're all anyone sees when they glance at her. On a longer look, when they see past _tiefling,_ they see _warlock._ Mostly because she _is_ a warlock, and it shows: the spellbooks on her belt bite and growl, and a sickly, _hungry_ magic dances between her fingertips, a crackling static under her skin that longs to devour, to _consume,_ everything it touches. She's dangerous and she looks the part, so it's rare for anyone to look long enough to see just how well her wings fit the picture she presents.

Prudence is a crow morph: her wings are big and powerful and inky-depths black, perfect for a tiefling, for a warlock, for _her._ She stretches almost idly, readjusting her wings, re-tucking them loosely against her back. Her feathers fluff a little in the damp sea breeze, which a gentle chill to offer as a sacrifice to her terrible glory. She loves her wings, takes pride in them, preens them daily to keep them looking their best. It's not really vanity—devotion would be more accurate. Because they're not really _her_ wings, not anymore.

When Prudence was a little girl, she loved to fly. She flew every chance she got, taking every opportunity to escape Cyrus' lectures for a little while. When she was twelve, she tried to fly away completely—when Cyrus caught her, he clipped her wings. For almost a year, he clipped her wings every time the feathers started to grow back in. Then he lost patience with the repetitive task (and trying to catch and pin a vicious, slippery apprentice) and slashed the muscles at the base of her wings, just above where they joined her back, grounding her forever. Her wings could hold no weight—she could barely hold them aloft. It was only after she killed Cyrus, only after she made a pact with Cthulhu and sealed it with blood, that her beautiful wings healed and became capable of bearing her weight in the sky once more.

So as far as Prudence is concerned, her wings aren’t hers anymore. They don’t belong to her. She lost her wings years ago to the man who called himself her father, though not by blood. The wings she bears now are Cthulhu’s, her patron’s, in reward for her faithful service. The wings she bears now are a promise— _obey me, and I will give you freedom._ The wings she bears now are a miracle, a gift, a kindness she never saw in Cyrus’ care. As a symbol of her bond with Cthulhu, she keeps her wings in the best shape she possibly can.

And she no longer takes them for granted. She knows now—has known for years—how easy it is to be landbound for good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prudence!
> 
> I love the image of Prudence with crow wings. They just fit her so well! Plus crows alternately symbolize death and good luck, which I thought was a good match for her.
> 
> Some headcanon is leaking through here—Prudence claims she killed Cyrus because he got in her way (right near the start of Rolling in the Deep), but I imagine she killed him because a pact with Cthulhu required a blood sacrifice (which is another detail I completely made up). Dunno, just popped into my head and wouldn't go away.
> 
> For anyone unfamiliar with my writing, this is my motto: everything I touch turns to angst.


	3. The Jackdaw

_Shut up, Dob._

He knows Cora didn't mean it. He was stressed, that was all; he _had_ just realized he'd shoved his feet into a pair of dead cats. He would have snapped at anyone who spoke. But no-one else made a sound, so it was Dob who got told to be quiet. Again. He tries not to let it bother him.

_Be quiet, Dob. Stop singing, Dob. Why are you being so loud, Dob? **Shut up, Dob.**_

Dob doesn't usually care about insults. Sticks and stones, right? He usually just lets them slide right off his back. Not so for anything that involves telling him to make less noise, however. And maybe he's being over-sensitive. Maybe he was spoiled as a child—Suzette always liked hearing him sing, always encouraged him to ask questions and say whatever came to mind, and there was no-one else around to complain. So he's used to having the freedom to make as much noise as he wants.

Regardless, being told to quiet down, or worse, to be _silent,_ hurts. It cracks something deep inside his chest, something fragile and slow to heal, and he worries that one of these days it will shatter completely and he will come undone entirely.

Maybe he's overreacting. It's not really a big deal, right? It doesn't matter? But it does, because Dob is a Jackdaw morph. A social bird, a _chatty_ bird, a bird that doesn't know how to shut up. And not only a talkative bird, but one that's stereotyped as shallow and dim-witted. And if there's one thing Dob has learned, it's that people don't hesitate to apply the stereotypes of the bird to the people who bear their wings.

So Dob is used to being told to shut up. Not everyone likes his music, not everyone likes his voice, not everyone likes _him._ And it stings, every time, but he can usually push past it and lock the hurt away. Who cares what a stranger thinks? ~~Even if it lands hard, bruising his too-soft heart every time.~~ But that's from _strangers._ From people he actually likes, cares about, values their opinion? It hits a lot harder.

And he doesn't want to upset them, so he doesn't say a word about his pain. He knows his friends love him, so he can never, _ever_ let them know how much being told to be silent hurts—he doesn't want them to realize that every single one of them has hurt him, doesn't want them to feel guilty over something that's not their fault. Because if he didn't tell them it hurt, how could they have known? It wasn't like they were _trying_ to hurt him. They just didn't know, because he didn't _want_ them to know.

He doesn't want to let the others see this chink in his armor, as much as he's come to trust them. They already think he's a bit silly—what could be sillier than being reduced to tears when told to shut up for once? He doesn't want to feed that misconception more than he already has.

So Dob does as he is bid, and bites his tongue and does not break his silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp. Here's some Dob angst to with the Corazón angst and the Prudence angst. I tend to favor those two in my ideas (what can I say, they're just closer to my personal aesthetic), so I did my best to show that they're not perfect (though again, it's mostly Cora).
> 
> As for his wings, Dob actually went through a few different birds before I settled on a jackdaw. They get lot of the 'loud and silly' stereotyping that songbirds get, while actually being one of the smartest birds around - like parrots, crows, and some other birds, jackdaws are actually capable of learning rudimentary speech. Plus they love living around humans and have a tendency to adopt a specific household, which just sounded _perfect_.
> 
> Apologies for the delay; the words did not cooperate. :|


End file.
